Wednesday, May 12, 2010

I don’t really care for living, I fear, But I’m incapable of facing death—Not the rope or the jolt or any drowning or the gun. There’s nothing to it, I am told, but I can’t get there. I just stay stuck here in the flame in dread and doubt And never leap for heart’s true beauty or go out.

Now when I ache I don’t know what for, but onlyThat there are few if any hearts that break for it. I can’t pretend to pray for it Or expect any other to see to it And fail myself to see that this old heart, when divulged, Is anything more than it ever was.

Sad songs and movies Never used to make me weep Nor illness, age, or death, And I would as lief return there Where a grievous song was only a song And my heart among life’s beauties was ever mine to give.